Deepest Desires of a Wicked Duke(112)

“Willoughby. I knew you were involved in this,” Sin said coolly. He had to play this game carefully—Will was pointing the damn barrel at Portia.

“You couldn’t. My death fooled you completely.”

“No, when Portia realized it was the madam who had been pushed off the cliff, not the cook, I began to realize the truth.”

“You didn’t.” Will’s eyes narrowed into dark slits. “You were fooled. You’re bluffing.”

“You’ve played enough cards with me to know when I’m bluffing. You know I’m telling you the truth now.”

“You couldn’t know. I was too clever.”

Sin heard a soft squeak from beside him. Portia’s eyes were huge with surprise and she’d made the little sound. She looked from Will to him. “You knew he was really alive?”

“You gave me the clues,” Sin admitted. “When Harriet was murdered and dressed like the cook, we were fooled because we couldn’t get close enough to identify her body. Then I realized there was one other victim who couldn’t be readily identified. Will was the only victim to suffer so much violence he was disfigured beyond recognition.” He turned back to Willoughby. “I went to your room, looked at the body that was supposed to be you. You used to joke about the heart-shaped scar on your back, put there by your father once when he hit you. That body had no scar. Who was he, Will? And why in God’s name did you help this woman murder ten people?”

“He helped?” Portia repeated. “That was how she was able to perform such feats of physical strength. Willoughby did it. But why?”

Will took a few steps closer. He still had that damn pistol trained on Portia and Sin felt powerless. Will was watching him and he couldn’t make any move yet.

“That body belongs to a young man I met on the mainland, a man was about my height with the same color hair. I brought him over here, drugged him, kept him hidden in the basement. You didn’t search the house until after my ‘death.’ As for why I did it, pretty, noble Miss Lamb? Sin thought he loved you so damn much. He thought that your purity would save him. He didn’t know a damn thing about real love.”

“He does,” Portia said, defiantly.

“Angel, don’t let him goad you.”

“Let her talk, Sin. Don’t you think it’s time she knew what you are?”

“She does know,” Sin said angrily. “I lost her because of that.”

“You told her you went to those brothels. You never really told her what you are.” Will glared at Portia. “I knew everything about his past. You were no sweet, innocent, handsome young rube from the country. Why do you think I took you to the House of Discipline, Sin? I knew what you were.”

Sin didn’t say anything. Will wasn’t paying attention to him. His crazed gaze was fixed on Portia. If he jumped Will right now, they might both go over the cliff. But Portia would be safe—

“He slept with his brother’s wife. Faced his brother in a duel over it. His own mother seduced him. He killed his own damn father. He grew up in a world of sex and perversion, and he lived in a private hell. I know what he suffered. I know,” Willoughby shouted. “And I was trying to help him. Trying to lead him to see that he was not a sinner at heart. I was going to offer him love, damn it. Then he broke off his engagement and—”

“Love?” Portia whispered. “You loved him?”

“True love. With my heart and soul, I loved you, Sin. I’d waited a lifetime for someone who could return my love. I shared women with you to be close to you. I brought you to orgies because when we were making love in a crowd, it was like we were making love together. Then you rejected me—because you still loved her!”

“I didn’t know how you felt, Will,” Sin said quickly. He had to drag Will’s attention and anger from Portia. “But I never would have loved you. Not because of Portia, but because . . . I just don’t.”

Just as he’d hoped, the pistol jerked around to point at him. Will’s finger went toward the trigger.

A shot exploded—but it slammed into Will’s back. Sin grabbed Portia and pulled her with him to the grass, to safety. In reflex, Will pulled the trigger, just as he stumbled forward, propelled by the force of the shot. His boots skidded on the wet grass; he howled in pain, then tumbled forward, off the edge of the cliff.

“No,” cried the cook. She had managed to get to her knees. “Brother!”

“Your brother?” Portia gasped.

“My half brother. We shared the same father. I killed our father—he’d threatened to kill Will over his love of men. Called him a Molly boy, a sinner, a waste of flesh. I protected Will all those years ago, and in return, he came here to help me.”